The Storm

On a racy evening in July you ran in the garden alley, the southern wind brushed your sculpted shoulders softly. Your disheveled swirling hair covered the sweaty face in a web. You danced like a peacock on fire courting the flying clouds that wave. Your fleeting feet lifting dust in the air took you onto the wings of the gale feral that you become in an instant clear when as lightning you smile in a flare. Blow me and place me like a leaf in the shadow of your parted lips. I wait. On a balmy evening in July the wind stops to blow suddenly, the trees don’t even breathe at all. The eastern sky turns into a slate rampart draped with wet clouds that will fall when the thunder splits the sky wide apart, and tells me as loudly as it can to look out, the storm would be coming soon with the wild wings spread wide to rout. I throw the closed window open. I wait. Wait to turn into a leaf.